A Little Death
by Disgruntled Peony
Summary: A thought for a missing scene from 'The New Stuff' that ended up being longer than intended.... Darien goes through counteragent withdrawal.


Title: A Little Death  
Author: liz_Z  
E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com  
Category: Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Money for Nothing, part 1' and The New Stuff'  
Season/Sequel info: Takes place during the events of The New Stuff', beginning approximately ten days after Darien was given the suicide gene  
Disclaimer: Don't own just like climbing into their heads and messing around in there every once in a while.  
Author's notes: OK, this idea's been lurking in my head for a while... they never explored it on the show, so I figured I might as well do it here. This story kind of operates as an extended missing scene for The New Stuff' -- very extended. This was originally supposed to be a fic-ette.... Kind of blew up in my face, eh? ;) Also, and very ironically, I wrote this story so I could get my own kind of quick fix.... So I'm starved for feedback. So sue me! Wait, no, don't do that, I'm broke as it is.... Just read, and if you like it, drop me a line telling me so.  
Content warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of drug withdrawal, some real, some halfway fictional, but all more than a little disturbing. 

The last two years have been... interesting for me. I mean, getting sent to prison for life is bad enough, but having your brother break you out just so he can fit an invisibility gland in your head that ends up getting you stuck in a place that could be arguably worse than the prison you were trying to avoid? Come on. I swear, sometimes my life seems like some cheesy television show.

After a while, though, I started to get into the routine. It was pretty simple. I'd go into work, snap at the Official, head out on the mission-of-the-week with Hobbes, and come back to get my shot. And each week, I died. Or at least, a part of me did. Over and over and over again.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying life was all bad, cause it wasn't. But one of the things I really could have done without were the shots. Having to go in for those every week tore me up inside.

Here's the routine: I walk into the Keep, sit down in that uncomfortable chair that I swear Claire ripped off from some demented dentist's office when he was having a garage sale and roll up my shirtsleeve, or the sleeve of my jacket if I'm wearing one. Then, I sit there and wait patiently while Claire fixes up my shot. We talk about something or other while she's getting it ready, but we both know that it's all really about that needle in her hands. Once it's ready she sticks it in my arm, we exchange a few parting words, and then I leave.

I didn't memorize the routine on purpose. I just went through it so many times that I know it by heart.

It was always about the fix. Much as I hated to admit it, hated to even think it, I wasn't any better than your average junkie. I would have done anything for that needle. Well, almost anything. After the casino job, I wasn't willing to give up the money I stole, even when the Official refused me the counteragent. But that wasn't so much about the money as it was a battle for supremacy, a struggle to see who would retain control of my life, who would call the shots from then on out. Still, I'd like to think there was something I would have been willing to give up my sanity for besides cold cash.

I don't really need the counteragent anymore; Claire saw to that. But it's still managed to maintain a hold on me that I didn't expect, although I really should have.

This is exactly what I was afraid would happen during my early days at the Agency, exactly what I wanted to avoid. After my brief sojourn as a crack addict back in my late teens, I'd always been very careful to avoid anything that could be potentially addictive -- besides scaling high-rises, that is. But once Arnaud's little brainchild started sending its sanity-splitting migraines shooting through my skull whenever I didn't get my fix, I really didn't have any choice in the matter.

I want the counteragent so bad I'm practically foaming at the mouth. I hid my car keys yesterday because I'm afraid that if I decide to go somewhere, I'll end up at the Agency before I even have time to think about it. Of course, I know where my keys are hidden, so that kind of defeats the purpose of the whole thing. But hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

I used to experience something like this every week, although it was admittedly on a smaller scale. About the time my tattoo hit six segments red, I'd start to feel a craving, a little prodding in the back of my brain that there was something I needed. I'd get antsy and decide to take a walk through the Agency halls, and I'd end up in front of the lab door. Sometimes my keycard would even mysteriously appear in my hand, all ready to slide through the lock.

But if that was bad, this is infinitely worse.

The physical symptoms alone are enough to terrify me. Different, but at the same time so much like the first stages of quicksilver madness.... I've had a hard time explaining them all off. My eyes are bloodshot, but that's probably from the lack of sleep. I'm really tense and jumpy, and my temper's skyrocketed through the roof, but that's to be expected from someone going through withdrawal. And I think I'm running a fever... I really don't have any way to justify that one.

I really should talk to Claire about this... but I'm afraid that if I do that, I'm gonna start begging her for a shot.

Correction. I'm not afraid I will. I know I will. I was so certain I would yesterday that after I hid my keys I ripped my phone cord out of the wall.

I keep trying to tell myself that I can do this, I can get through this without breaking and crawling back to the Agency on my hands and knees. But all I want is one shot, just one.... It'll help, I know it will. It'll make all this stop....

Before I even realize what I'm doing, I've already bent down on my hands and knees and started fishing under the couch for my car keys.

I take a deep breath as my fingers brush against the cold metal of my key ring and then pull it out from under the couch, almost of their own accord. I can't be doing this. That can't be my hand holding those keys. Those can't be my legs walking out of my apartment and down to my car. That can't be my fingers turning the keys in the ignition, my foot pressing down on the gas pedal.... I wouldn't do something like this, I'm not this weak.

At least I'm not driving toward the Agency. That would be the ultimate humiliation. I'm doing the next worst thing, though... I'm driving toward Claire's house. No, no, no, come on Darien, you don't need to do this, you can get through this, you don't need the counteragent, you DON'T! And I'm still driving, and my head is throbbing, and I'm dying again, that little part of me is going, going, gone....

And I'm on Claire's street.

I stop the car in front of her driveway, taking deep breaths in an attempt to regain control of myself. I don't want anyone to see me like this, especially not Claire.... She has too much control over the situation for my tastes. I mean, I trust her, but... at the same time, I really can't afford to. Not about this. It's too personal, too... degrading. I hope she doesn't tell Hobbes. I hope to God she doesn't tell Hobbes.

I haven't gotten out of the car yet. Maybe I can still turn around. Yeah, that's it, I'll just turn around and drive away.... Aw crap. Claire just walked out her front door. And all hope of my leaving just went out the window.

Darien? What are you doing here, what's going on? Claire sounds confused. She's not the only one.

I get out of the car, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I need your help. I take a few steps toward her, my posture tense and rigid. This isn't good. I'm having to clench and unclench my fists every few seconds just so that I can keep myself distracted from the overpowering urge to demand that she give me the counteragent out here on her front lawn.

Claire pales. Oh my goodness, what happened? She grabs my arm and pulls me inside. It's all I can do to keep from flinching away from her touch. Human contact is definitely not what I need right now.

Don't say it, Darien, don't say it! I need the counteragent.

Claire frowns and shakes her head, "No, Darien, you don't, you're cured." Even as she speaks her hand is reaching out and taking my right wrist, turning it over so that she can look at my tattoo. Apparently, she isn't as sure about the cure as she claims.

I stare at the tattoo, knowing what I'll see, but still having a hard time believing it with the way my head is pounding and my pulse is racing. The monitor is all green. But it shouldn't be, I know it shouldn't, it should have been completely red by now....

Claire smiles up at me. "See?"

I shake my head stubbornly. "No, you don't understand!" My breath is heaving, my mind is roiling, and I can tell I'm about to do something I'll regret later. I hold up my wrist, waving the tattoo in her face. "This says I don't need it, but this," I tap a finger on the side of my head, "this says I do."

Claire is looking worried again, but this time I don't think she's just worried about me. "Darien, calm down. Why don't you come and sit down in the kitchen, and we can talk about this."

I shake my head stubbornly. "No! I don't wanna talk." I know exactly what I want, what I need, what I crave... and Claire isn't giving it to me.

She begins to back up now, eyes wide with terror. And that makes me angry, because the look on of fear on her face is one I'd hoped I would never see when someone looked at me again. "Darien--"

"NO!" I lunge forward and grab her wrist, trying to keep her from leaving, and give her a desperate look. "I need it." I'm breathing heavily again, and I can feel strange crawly things going up and down my arms. It's all I can do not to scratch, it feels just like... oh crap, just like spiders! Invisible spiders, crawling up and down my skin.

I leap back and let go of Claire's wrist as I quicksilver my eyes, brushing at my arms for a good thirty seconds before I realize that if the spiders were really there, and quicksilvered, that I would be able to see them right now. Which means that they aren't there... but I can still feel them, and it's driving me crazy, and I just want it to STOP!

And then, finally, it does. I let the quicksilver fall, heaving a sigh of relief. I look around and frown. When did I end up on the floor? I don't remember falling... but I'm here. And Claire isn't. Where's Claire?

I stand up shakily and look around, trying to figure out where she would have gone. Bedroom? No, there's no way out of there except through the bathroom window, and that's a pretty good drop. Living room? I peek inside, but she isn't there. Kitchen? Nah, she wouldn't have any reason to go there. Unless she had counteragent in the fridge....

I walk into the kitchen and look around, but Claire is nowhere in sight. Still, the refrigerator is, and even though I know she has no reason to keep counteragent in there, not now that I'm 'cured', I just have to open it up and look. After all, she keeps her gun in the same drawer as her hairbrush. Why wouldn't she keep a few vials of counteragent nestled behind the leftover take-out?

I open the refrigerator door and look inside. No blue, not in front anyway. Yogurt containers, a half-eaten salad, some sort of weird soup thingy.... I pitch all of it on the floor in turn. The counteragent has to be here. I need it, and Claire always has it. Maybe behind the buffalo wings? No.... How about the milk carton? There has to be some in here somewhere, maybe behind the -- ahh!

Needle. Needle in neck. But it's not counteragent, I can tell, it's... something else....

I turn around as the needle comes back out, and look down at a very grim-looking Claire. "What the he...." Oh. I know what that was. That was a sedative, which would explain why I'm feeling so dizzy and my vision is going dark and oh, this is just great, the floor is coming up to meet me.... Ow. Hello, floor.

**********

I'm thirsty. That's one of the things I've always hated about sedatives: they always leave me with this nasty feeling in my mouth and throat afterwards, like someone stuffed a whole bunch of cotton balls down there and then ripped them back out, but some of the cotton got stuck. I need something to drink. I need.... No, don't go there, Darien, you know exactly what you'll think next.

My eyes fly open as I sit up -- or try to, anyway. It's a little hard to sit up all the way when one of your hands is restrained by a pair of handcuffs. I glance around, taking in the scenery. Apparently, I'm handcuffed to Claire's bedpost, since this is definitely not my bedroom. If I didn't know what I'd been doing just before she knocked me out, I'd probably be wondering what had put her in such a kinky mood.

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and Claire walks into the room. She freezes for a moment as she sees me, as if unsure how to react. Then she shifts into doctor mode. "You're awake. Good."

I close my eyes for a moment and heave a deep sigh, then open them and look over at Claire plaintively. "Claire, I'm sorr--"

She holds up a hand. "Darien, don't apologize. I should have known something like this would happen, I should have taken precautions." She takes a deep breath and then continues, "I'm going to help you."

Before I can even stop myself, it's out of my mouth. "You're going to give me the counteragent?"

Claire frowns disapprovingly. "No. I'm going to help you through the withdrawal."

Oh. Should've seen that coming. "Well... couldn't we do kind of a Nicorette-type thing? You know, a little less of the blue stuff every week until I'm ready to stop?"

Claire sighs and shakes her head. "It's not that simple, Darien. There is no more counteragent left in my possession, and by the time I synthesized a new batch, you'd be over the worst of your symptoms. Giving it to you then would only make things harder for you.

"So I'm quitting cold-turkey." I run my free hand, which happens to be my right one, through my hair. I catch a fleeting glimpse of green as I do. Green that really, really shouldn't be there.

"Essentially... yes."

A thought occurs to me, a really, really bad thought that sends shivers up my spine. "You haven't told the Official, have you?"

Claire gives me a disbelieving look. "Of course not! He'd find some way to use this to his advantage, and we'd be right back where we were before...."

I sigh and nod. "Yeah, I know." I'm relieved for a second, but then another thought occurs to me that is somehow even worse. "What about Hobbes? You didn't tell him, did you?"

Claire shakes her head. "No."

Thank God for small favors. If Hobbes found out about this, I'd have a hard time ever facing him again. It's not exactly easy for me to deal with the fact that Claire is witnessing this little drama, but Hobbes... I really, really would not be able to stand the thought of him knowing. He's too good of a friend, he shouldn't have to see me like this.

I lean back against the mattress, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable angle I have to hold my handcuffed arm in. Come to think of it, why does Claire have handcuffs, anyway? I look over at her and ask, Hey Claire, what's with the bracelets? You and Hobbesy been having sleepovers or something? I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.

Of course not! Claire protests, glaring at me indignantly. I had them for emergencies.

Kinky emergencies? I ask, semi-hopefully. It's not like I really want to know about Claire's sex life, but I don't know much of anything about her at all, and the little devil sitting on my right shoulder is awful curious.

Claire purses her lips. Emergencies like you deciding to pay me a surprise visit if you went quicksilver mad after-hours.

I wince. We aren't too far from that situation right now. Well, do you think we could take em off? They're sort of chaffing me here.

Claire sighs and shakes her head. That really wouldn't be a good idea. What happened downstairs... that was only the beginning. I really, REALLY don't like the sound of this.... Claire sits down on the bed and gives me a guilt-ridden look as she says, It's going to get worse.

I can feel the blood draining away from my face. 

Claire nods slowly. Much worse.

Aw crap.... Just once, why can't things be easy?

Claire pats my free arm in a soothing manner. I think you'll be over the worst of the symptoms within the next couple of days, but... she bites her lip like she does whenever she's about to tell me something she knows I don't want to hear, before that, they'll escalate to their peak. Probably within the next 12 hours or so.

Perfect. This is just perfect. My head feels like someone's banging on my skull with a hammer -- from the inside. I'm getting edgy again, my fever is rising, and I'm beginning to hear a soft buzzing noise that I know isn't anywhere but in my head. How much worse could it get?

Quite frankly, I don't wanna know.

**********

I can't sleep. I've tried, but every time I close my eyes I see blue. Soft, swimming, liquid blue. It's the same problem I've been having the last few nights, but this time it's worse. I can smell it. I can practically taste it. At this point, I've given up trying to sleep and settled for the next best thing, which is trying to keep my eyes open.

Claire tried to keep me company for a while, but I guess I started to grate on her nerves. The fact that I was alternating between demanding, pleading, and screaming for counteragent probably didn't help. She left about an hour ago, claiming she needed a cup of coffee, and she hasn't come back since. That's fine with me, I'm used to it. Everyone leaves me in the end.

I need to get out of these cuffs. I've tried to quicksilver my wrist so I can freeze the metal and break loose, but I can't focus enough to do it properly. All my attention is held by the thought of counteragent. Counteragent.... I don't care what anyone says, I need it. And right now, I'd probably do anything to get it. Maybe... maybe even go to Arnaud.

I try to quicksilver my wrist one more time, but I just can't do it. A growl of frustration escapes my lips. How am I supposed to get the counteragent when I'm handcuffed to a bedpost?

The invisible spiders are back. Up and down my spine, my arms, my legs... they're everywhere, and there's nothing I can do to stop them, because they're not real but they're still there and how am I supposed to stop something that's not real? I take deep breaths and wait for them to go away. They did before, they will again. All I have to do is wait....

"Hello, Darien."

I jump. I can't help it. I know that voice, but it belongs to a ghost. Or a dead man, anyway.... I turn my head in the direction it came from, afraid of what I'm going to see. My eyes widen. "Kevin?" This can't be real. I have to be hallucinating.

Kevin sits in the chair Claire pulled up a few feet away from the bed, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. "What, you were expecting someone else?"

Yeah. Harvey the six-foot rabbit.

Kevin purses his lips irritably. "Please, spare me your pitiful attempts at humor. I'm here to help you with your counteragent problem."

"Yeah, you helped me a whole lot last time...." So I'm bitter. I figure I have a right to be. "And don't start telling me about how I don't need it any more. I've been getting that enough from people who are actually alive and breathing."

"Actually, I'm here to help you get it."

I pause for a long moment, unable to believe my ears. 

"You heard me." Kevin reclines in his chair. "After all, it's what made you what you are today. A respectable, law-abiding citizen. Without it, you would have probably tried to return to petty crime as soon as the gland testing was over."

"That's crap and you know it!"

"Actually, he has a point. A flawed one, but a point nonetheless." Oh man, that is NOT who I think it is, it had better not be who I think it is.... I turn my head to where the new voice is coming from. This just keeps getting better and better....

It's Arnaud.

I give him my best death glare and hiss, "Hey there, Arnie. Come to gloat?"

"Actually, I came to help."

I glance over at Kevin and mutter sarcastically, "Now, where have I heard that before?"

Arnaud walks back into my field of vision, his hands placed behind his back. "Don't be an idiot. I'm here to help cure you."

I shake my head. "Yeah, right. Help kill me, more likely."

Arnaud gives me a meaningful look. "If I were going to kill you, you'd be dead already."

I have to admit, he's got a point. OK, what sort of help are we talking about here?

Arnaud shrugs. I can talk you through this. Provide moral support.

I laugh out loud at that. Now I know I'm hallucinating.

Kevin stands to his feet and walks over, giving Arnaud a furious glare. Don't interfere! I was here first!

Arnaud glares right back, looking as if he's ready to go toe to toe with my geek-oid brother. If it comes down to a fight, I have no doubts who will win. Yes, well, if anyone is going to ruin Fawkes' life, it's going to be me. I'm not going to let him destroy himself over some simple drug withdrawal! I'd prefer to cause the destruction more directly, something like killing his friends in front of his eyes, although I'm not sure if that would be enough after watching how he reacted to your untimely demise. He gives Kevin that irritating smirk that I always hated being on the receiving end of.

I clear my throat in an attempt to attract attention. As much fun as it is watching you two bicker, why don't you go settle this somewhere else and leave me alone?

Kevin ignores me, clenching his fists and narrowing his eyes at Arnaud through the coke-bottle glasses perched on his nose. Darien was very upset over my death. He's still trying to take it out of your hide, isn't he?

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my right thumb and forefinger and growl, Shut up, both of you!

The bedroom door opens and Claire walks in, looking extremely exasperated, not to mention exhausted. Darien, why are you yelling? It's 2:47 in the morning!

Yeah, like that means anything to me right now. I haven't slept more than three hours in the last three days. I can't get them to shut up, I say by way of explanation, not really caring at this point about whether I'm making sense or not. I just want to be left alone.

Claire frowns. Darien... you and I are the only ones in the room.

I lick my lips, trying to think of an analogy that would make sense. Yeah, well, I'm being haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past and present, although the ghost of Christmas future hasn't decided to show his ugly mug yet.

Claire frowns and walks over to my side. She places a hand on my forehead, then pulls back as if stung. Bloody hell, you're burning up!

Arnaud frowns. This isn't good.

Claire places a hand on my shoulder in an attempt to attract my attention. Darien, look at me.

Kevin pushes his glasses up on his nose. He needs the counteragent now, before his condition gets any worse.

Arnaud shakes his head. No, it would just make things worse by now. If Claire hadn't given him the suicide gene he would be well into stage five madness by now. Giving him the counteragent at this point would do more harm than good.

Did Arnaud and Kevin get personality transplants or something? I would have thought this argument would have gone the other way around. And Claire's grip on my shoulder is more insistent now as she says, Darien! Look at me, please.

I moan and run a hand across my face, then pull it away as I feel the slickness of the sweat smeared on my fingers. It's getting hard to think now, hard to focus. Arnaud and Kevin are yelling back and forth at each other, knee-deep in another argument, and Claire is cupping her hands on my face, saying something to me in a soft, soothing, but desperate tone, but I can't understand any of them over the buzzing in my ears. I can't think, I can't THINK, they're all too loud, why don't they just shut up? Shut up! SHUT UP!

Claire pulls back with a suddenness that makes me wonder if I actually said that out loud. She turns and rushes out of the room, yelling something that is probably supposed to be reassuring. But all I know is she's leaving, she's leaving me alone with the vultures, Arnaud and Kevin, and they're going to eat me alive and I need to get away, need to find somewhere that's actually quiet!

I start to struggle against the handcuffs, ignoring the way they tear into the flesh of my left wrist. The argument between Kevin and Arnaud is dying down, and I know that once they finish fighting with each other, they're going to come to some sort of agreement and then they'll come over to either watch me go insane or give me the counteragent. I'm not sure which would be worse.

I lunge off of the bed and try to make a run for it, but the cuffs snap taut and I fall to the ground, my head smacking painfully against the floor with a loud crack. A soft whimper escapes my lips. That really hurt. 

Claire comes back into the room, a glass of water in hand, but when she sees me she hurriedly places it on her dresser and bends down at my side, trying to help me back up on the bed. But I can't stay there, I can't! I pull away, curling up as tightly as I can. My eyes are wide with terror, and with good reason. Kevin and Arnaud have stopped arguing.

They turn toward me, their motions completely in sync, perfectly mirrored by each other. They advance toward me slowly, and oh God they're going to kill me, I just know they're going to kill me....

And then Arnaud pulls out a needle. A needle filled with a shimmering blue liquid.

I want it. I want it so badly. But now that I see it, now that I'm actually about to be given it, I also feel a distinct repulsion toward that needle. I want it. But I don't need it. And all the old hatred, the feelings of anger, disgust and loathing I felt toward that needle, toward everything it represented, come back with a vengeance. 

"No...." I hear a voice rasping quietly in my ears, and then realize that it's my own.

I pull away, pressing up against the bed, getting as far from Arnaud and Kevin and that needle as I can. I'm vaguely aware of Claire trying to hold me still, whispering calming words in my ear, but all I can see is that needle, and all I can hear is my own voice saying, "No. No. No!"

Arnaud smirks and moves closer, his lips moving in a familiar fashion. I don't have to hear him to know what he's saying. "Little prick...." He leans forward to stab the needle into my vein.

My foot comes up and connects with Arnaud's wrist. I don't feel the impact, but Arnaud pulls back, yelping angrily, and the needle crashes to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces and spilling its precious blue contents all over the bedroom floor.

Kevin looks down at the pile of shattered glass and pooling liquid, then back up at me, his face contorting with hatred. He lunges at me, his fingers reaching for my throat, but as he touches me he disintegrates, transforming into... spiders. Lots of spiders, all over me, and this time I can see them and I can feel them crawling all over my body and I can't take this anymore, it's too much, and then Arnaud follows Kevin's lead and I have twice as many spiders crawling all over me, scratching and biting and I can't take it anymore and I scream! I scream until I can't scream anymore and darkness begins to encroach on my vision, replacing everything with quiet, peaceful blackness. I heave a sigh of relief as I pass out.

**********

Someone is touching me. Finger on my neck to check my pulse, cool hand on my forehead to check my temperature... then it lifts my right eyelid and lets in a painfully bright light. Ow. Light bad. I flinch, let out a soft groan, and try to push away the offending hand. The light is removed, much to my relief, and I hear a soft, feminine chuckle waft through the air. You had me worried there for a while.

I get up the courage to open my eyes. At first all I see is a blur, but eventually my vision clears enough that I can distinguish Claire's face looking down at me, her expression one of relief tainted with exhaustion. I wince at the hoarseness of my own voice. My throat hurts.

Claire gives a Mona Lisa smile, as if she knows something I don't. Try afternoon.

Was I really out for that long? I try to sit up, but I don't get more than a couple of feet off of the pillow before my head begins to buzz like a swarm of bees. I flop back down on the bed, moaning. Getting up is obviously not a good idea right now.

Claire frowns. What's the matter?

And the award for understatement of the year goes to me. My head feels like it's about to fall off my shoulders.

Anything else? I can feel her eyes on me as she attempts to gauge my reaction to the question.

I think about that for a long time and then realize that no, there isn't. The fever is down, the buzzing noise in my ears is long gone, my emotions aren't going haywire.... I can still feel the craving for counteragent echoing in the back of my brain, but it's just a minor annoyance now, something that will be relatively easy to ignore. No, there isn't.

Claire smiles. She picks up a key off of her dresser and walks over to me, dangling it teasingly in front of my face. Then we won't need these anymore. She unlocks the cuffs. We flinch in tandem as we see the red welts and bruises around my left wrist. I'd better take care of that, Claire says, looking at the injured area disapprovingly. I nod in agreement, and she walks over to her bathroom, presumably to get her first aid kit.

I look up at the ceiling and take a deep breath, relishing the newfound level of freedom in my life. I don't need the counteragent any more. And, truth be told, I don't really want it. I had to learn that the hard way, but I've learned it all the same. And hopefully, the part of me that still longs for that little blue needle, that easy fix, will die off soon. I'm gonna do my best to make sure that it does.

And, unfortunately, that means that the first thing I need to do is get away from Claire. Right now, she's a painful reminder of what I've just gone through, and I can't stand to have any more of those than absolutely necessary. I get out of bed as quietly as possible, scrawl a quick note of apology on a piece of paper -- it's a good thing I'm right-handed, or that would be very difficult right now -- and then walk out of the house as fast as my legs will carry me.

As I march over to my car I begin to fish around in my pants pockets for my car keys, but for some reason I can't seem to find them. Where...? I look in the driver's side window of my vehicle and make a face. Of course. I was in such a hurry yesterday that I never took them out of the ignition. I climb into the car and sigh with relief. I'm lucky no teenage punks in Claire's neighborhood decided to try their hand at stealing cars last night, cause this would have been an insanely easy grab.

I turn the keys in the ignition and drive away as quickly as possible, trying not to think about what Claire's reaction will be when she finds my little note. Whatever it is, I'm sure it won't be good. But I just don't have the courage to face her right now, and to be honest I'm not sure when I will. Maybe later. Maybe never. But certainly not today.

~~*~~ Epilogue ~~*~~

I shouldn't have walked out like that. I knew that even as I did it. I should have apologized to Claire, at least called her or something... but I didn't. And now I'm regretting it, because I need her help again, and this time I'm not sure whether she'll be willing to give it.

It's been two weeks since I walked out of her house. And since then I've gotten a job with the FBI, put some major strain on my friendship with Hobbes, and made myself look like an idiot in front of the fibbies by fingering Chrysalis as the group responsible for the destruction of the greenhouse and research lab at Terra Gen. They told me to stick to my trick'... so I did. I used my so-called trick to swipe some notes from the evidence lab, but I can't make head or tails of em. And the best person I can think of to ask about all this techno-babble is Claire.

I've been waiting outside the CDC building for several minutes now, and I can't help but wonder if she left work early. I glance around, and when I turn back Claire is walking out the front doors, talking with another woman, presumably a fellow scientist. Oh, there she is. I'd probably sound a lot more enthusiastic if it wasn't for the fact that I'm half afraid she'll punch me in the nose the minute I try to say hello.

I pull the car up alongside the sidewalk where she's walking and say, since I can't think of anything better, Claire looks at me. Her mouth drops open as if she can't quite believe my audacity, and after a brief pause she faces forward and continues walking. I decide to try again. Hey, Claire.... I continue to keep the car even with her, edging forward as she strides purposefully down the sidewalk. I need your help, OK?

Claire looks over at me again and says in a firm tone, And you had it. Great. She's pissed. Not that I expected anything less.

Obviously, she's just gonna keep on walking here, so I pull my car over at the next intersection, which is thankfully very close, and park it in her way. Claire looks a little uncomfortable at my behavior, probably because she doesn't want her new friend to think she spends her free time with lunatics or insanely jealous boyfriends. I climb out of the car hurriedly, not about to let her get away, and blurt out what I should have told her weeks ago. Thank you!

Claire looks up at me with an expression of bewilderment on her face, as if she can barely believe what I just said.

I try again, softer this time, more sincere. Thank you. I mean it. Claire helped me out of my own personal hell, and it's past time I thanked her for it. I just hope my thanks is enough.

Claire thinks for a long moment. Her expression is skeptical at first, but it slowly softens. And I know instinctively that even though we have a long way to go before she will completely trust me again, she's going to help.

The End 


End file.
